


Roses and Garbage

by uao



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Frottage, Light Dom/sub, Lots of roses and rain, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Scars, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 00:47:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6401068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uao/pseuds/uao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the pitter patter of rain that draws Harry from his sleep, the loud horn of a nearby train rattling the picture frames on the shelves of his bookcase and walls; filled with memories of his childhood, memories of his teenage years; all memories of the past. All memories that Louis somehow took a part in and right now, Louis is taking a part in this very memory as well — Harry will look back on this moment years from now and remember that this, this date of 13 November 2013, is the day he fell in love with his best friend of three years yet crush of many.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Where We Depart

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you and if you like it, please leave comments and kudos.

 

_———_

 

It's the pitter patter of rain that draws Harry from his sleep, the loud horn of a nearby train rattling the picture frames on the shelves of his bookcase and walls; filled with memories of his childhood, memories of his teenage years; all memories of the past. All memories that Louis somehow took a part in and right now, Louis is taking a part in this very memory as well  _—_  Harry will look back on this moment years from now and remember that this, this date of 13 November 2013, is the day he fell in love with his best friend of three years yet crush of many.

Light inhales and exhales are the only sign of the life behind Harry, his form turning in the sheets of his bed to gaze at the tan skin of the boy across from him, Louis' back like the night sky with the way the light post outside his window shadows the droplets of rain on his window into his bedroom; making them look like stars in a very large constellation of the galaxy that is Louis Tomlinson. Harry's fingers come up, tracing the marks of stars on Louis' skin, noting the red scratches that Harry put there hours ago; his own nails sharp and long, creating the lines that connect the stars on Louis' skin from their session of love making.

It wasn't soft or gentle, this love making of theirs, if the scratches on Louis' back are any indication. Harry's neck isn't any better, though; littered with hues of crimson and violet, the only type of bruises that are acceptable when it comes from the one you love are those that contain lips and teeth  _—_  sometimes nails when Louis' fingers gripped Harry's hips too harshly, like he was afraid that if he let go, he'd lose Harry in the tidal waves of sheets and silk.

Harry remembers the first time Louis and himself made love or, well, the first hand job they gave each other in the confines of Louis' yellow and navy sheeted twin size bed that barely fit them both; one of them always falling off. Harry was sixteen and Louis was eighteen, testing fate with their very own fingers while they touched each other, their parents in the room adjacent to them. They were quiet, rushed, and stumbling over each other's words and movements and it feels like that even three years later, with more experience than most teenagers their own age, they're still rushing and stumbling over each other. It's never enough; really, no amount of times they fuck or make each other cum is enough to fix this hole inside of Harry. 

His thoughts are scattered, rarely ever making sense, and they always come back to the same thing every time — how Harry got this way, what made him this way, and how Louis wasn't there to stop it, only to further it on like the way a master leads a dog on; holding a treat in front of its face but never truly satisfied with the way the dog completes its series of tricks. Louis was holding himself in front of Harry, telling him to jump and roll over, yet he kept a firm hold on Harry's leash.

Harry couldn't go unless Louis wanted him to, couldn't change unless he did enough to satisfy the older man, and he wonders when Louis became like this, too, because neither of them were ever so bitter or pessimistic, neither of them were so exhausted but suddenly energetic when around each other. Louis is the sun and Harry is the Earth, orbiting around Louis.

Harry's cold and Louis burns, but he guesses that he will never learn.

 

_———_

 

The bell of the bakery shoppe's front door pulls Harry from the novel he's reading, sliding the silk ribbon back into place on page 364, and he sets it aside before standing and wiping his hands on his apron; stained with flour from the day's baking. He smiles gently as he looks up only for it to falter, a deep inhale taking place of the anxiety deep in his lungs; making the breath hitch and stutter with the transition.

Harry did not expect to see Louis today, especially after waking up for a second time yet only this time, Louis wasn't there and Harry was left with ice cold sheets; his palm pressing against them and shocking all his nerves, especially the ones leading to the organ in his chest. Louis stopped spending the night not too long ago. Harry guesses it's because Louis doesn't like commitment yet his skin is littered with ink and Harry tries not to think about what that might mean.

"Hi," Harry greets softly, hands resting on the marble counter top above the glass display, holding their weekly specials yet Louis' eyes are up ahead, on the menu over Harry. Harry's hazel eyes trail over Louis, taking in the details of him on this day; his scruff is grown out but only by a few days, a spot of it left a bit longer than the rest of the garden of hairs, letting Harry know that Louis must have shaven in a hurry — no doubt to catch the bus to see his mother for his birthday not too long ago — and his outfit is as soft as always; fitting black jeans, a black shirt with a denim button up that Louis has left unbuttoned, and his infamous black slip on Vans. It's a wonder, how Louis' back isn't irritated by the soft fabric of the shirt, whereas Harry's hips are throbbing from the tight waistband of his jeans. It's just another sign about how much Louis is able to tolerate.

"Hey Hazza," Louis reciprocates the greeting, his turquoise eyes settling on Harry, and it takes Harry's breath away for a moment; how deep and soulful this young man's eyes are. Harry always said Louis held the ocean in his eyes and Louis would snort and laugh at Harry, telling him that he isn't a part of this world like that, but Harry knows Louis is his world, really. Louis' gaze takes away Harry's breath like the turmoil of the waves, Louis' laughter and smile is the oxygen in his lungs when he's drowning, and Louis' just  _—_  his mere presence in Harry's life is the boulder he snags onto when the turmoil is too strong for him to fight. It's crazy, how many times this boy has saved Harry's life in the tiniest ways and Harry doesn't know it yet, but he's saved Louis' life, too, like the way a bee saves a rose's life by simply doing its job and pollinating. 

"Are you wanting your usual? Blueberry muffin with a side of green tea; no sugar, a splash of dairy?" Harry inquires, the order so simple and easy to remember but Harry somehow makes it differently each time and he wonders if Louis notices. He probably doesn't.

Louis smiles, his eyes crinkling and his whole face lighting up, and Harry swears that is his genuine smile, his 'sunshine smile' as he likes to call it. It makes Harry return the kind gesture, his own genuine with dimples and all, and Louis nods. 

"Yeah, yeah, the usual. Y'know, when you called in sick last Monday and Nick was here to cover your shift, he added sugar to my tea," Louis says with a scrunch of his nose, making a disgusted and displeased face. "It was disappointing, in the least, and may I add that tea without sugar is the  _only_ way? Because he and I had a romp about it and I nearly threw my cuppa at him."

Louis' hands are moving about, making gestures and even if they are crude, they are rather endearing to Harry nonetheless because this is  _Louis_ , the one who is loud and demands the attention of everyone in the same room or vicinity as him, the one that laughs at nearly everything, the one that brought Harry roses once or twice a month when he came to the bakery or  _—_  well. The one that used to bring Harry roses once or twice a month. Louis visits this bakery numerous times a week and the most he's given Harry is a quickie in the loo; fast and rushed, as always, and Harry wonders when their rides will be smooth and slow; gentle like the honey Harry takes in his own cuppa. Harry wonders when things will be back to the way they were between them but he figures change is for the best and inevitable, no matter how much he dislikes it. 

Harry laughs, nodding along to what Louis is saying as he motions for Louis to follow him into the back so they can speak while Harry prepares the other man's order. It's when Harry's washed his hands and grabs the dishes he'll need that he replies, "You really dislike sugar and your tea, don't you?" when he already knows the answer — he just wants to see Louis worked up again; see him become passionate.

Louis just gives him this  _look_ , one Harry has seen many times before when Louis deemed him ridiculous, and scoffs. "Harold, how long have you known me? I fucking bloody well despise sugar in my tea, especially from Nick Grimshaw! I know if you gave it to me, you were just taking the piss, but he genuinely thinks sugar in tea is tasteful. Another reason to dislike him, really, if you ask me," he huffs.

Harry smiles to himself as he stirs the fresh blueberries into the batter, shaking his head fondly because he's missed this; missed their banter and idle chit-chat while one of them was doing whatever the hell it is they do and they can just relax with each other and not worry about time because that is all anyone worries about anymore — if I take this route, I'll arrive three minutes earlier than expected; if I pack my lunch instead of having McDonald's, I'll save more time to relax before returning to work; if I go to sleep now, I'll have 5 hours, 14 minutes, and 23 seconds left to sleep; and it goes on, and on, and on. Time is made up by man, it shouldn't even be something anyone worries about, but every individual on this Earth does because it is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

The oven beeps, letting Harry know it's preheated, and he fills the muffin pan with six blueberry muffins before sliding it into the awaiting appliance. He might as well make more for any suspecting customers that may come later in the day wanting blueberry muffins, save himself the trouble of going through this all again, his wrist beginning to cramp from the everyday motion of whisking and stirring, blending and pouring. He loves it though, making these little masterpieces and helping people charge themselves throughout their day, even if it's a little batch of lemon cookies for his neighbour Nancy; a frail old woman that makes her way down to Harry's bakery for the lemon cookies in exchange of a tea for Harry. Even if Harry can make his own tea here, Nancy's always tastes sweeter, tastes as if it was made with the love Harry's missing in his own cuppa for himself.

"Nick is rather kind to me, Lou; I dunno why he wouldn't be the same with you considering we've been friends for a little over three years. Every time he and I meet while you're with me, he's cordial. What has you so irked about him?" Harry inquires before hopping up onto the counter, flour dusted fingers sliding through his fringe to push it back; his curls growing longer and longer each passing day, it feels like.

Louis has to keep himself from smiling fondly when Harry's fingers leave flour in his hair, much like that time Louis' face paint for Halloween ended up in his hair after a rather quick session in the loo of the club they were in. It's nice, remembering gentle reminders of their ever growing friendship, and dare he say love, for each other. Harry may doubt that Louis cares for him anymore, and Louis doesn't blame him with how Louis has changed over the years; more guarded and less open, especially to Harry, but Louis loves Harry to the moon and back, swears he's an angel fallen from heaven to come help Louis in this difficult time in his life. 

Harry's so generous, even when he's upset, he'll have open arms for Louis and pushes his own problems aside to help someone else. It's angelic, this behaviour of his, and it makes Louis wonder how he's so lucky to know an open heart like this if he only keeps tearing it right back open after Harry's finished sewing it back shut. Louis is curious as to how many scars he's left on Harry, he knows Harry's left a collection of his own on himself.

"Well, I just don't fancy him, H. He just rubs me the wrong way, yeah? He's loud, too loud, and louder than me which says something! And he thinks he's so cool because he has his own radio show, as if any ordinary joe couldn't do that with a radio breaker and microphone. He just seems very egotistical, s'all," Louis murmurs, shrugging because he can see Harry tense up and his brows furrow into a frown of wrinkles, a tell-tale sign that he's offended or upset. Nick is Harry's friend, a close one at that, and Louis disliking him hurts Harry because Louis is an even closer friend he just... He wishes for all of his friends, what little he has, to get along with each other. It's frustrating.

"Nick isn't—" Harry's cut off by the beep of the oven's timer, hopping off of the counter in trade for sliding his pink oven mitts on and retrieving the six muffins from inside. He sets them down on a cooling rack, sighing gently as he begins a kettle for Louis; setting the mitts down on the counter next to where he was previously sitting. He wants to change the topic, wants to change this snag of conversation and smoothness between them. Their relationship is only ever as smooth as honey covered granite or as rough as a bed of nails — no in between — and it's unsettling, knowing things might possibly never go back to how they were. A dog eared map that Harry keeps folding over, telling himself he'll look for his destination tomorrow, but he never does; he always holds himself back as if it's the only way to fix these things by ignoring them.

Ignorance is Harry's best, most close friend, he deems.

"Do you want the medium to-go cup or the larger one?" Harry inquires as he turns his head to gaze at Louis, wiping his hands off on his apron once more before opening the white cabinet in front of him; his black Converse-clad feet tapping a rhythm into the black and white tile of the bakery. It's cute, this little quaint shoppe he works for, with its vintage furniture and black and white colour scheme. It's relaxing, welcoming, and warm; something Harry most likely needs more of in his own nearly-empty flat next to the railroad tracks that never seem to  _not_  be busy. 

"Hm," Louis ponders, worrying his bottom lip as he types a message to Zayn out on his mobile, planning to meet up for a quick hangout down at the skating park. Somewhere he and Harry used to spend their time; lying in the bottom of the concrete pits and gazing up at the stars as if they were lying at the bottom of a pool, unaffected by the noise and presence of others. "Gimme the larger cuppa this time, I'm meeting up with Zayn and he'll probably want a drink or two."

Harry nods and fills his cup, packing two blueberry muffins into the plastic; ornately designed bag, before a slither of dairy is poured into the tea and stirred in. He clasps a lid on, handing the bag and cup to Louis along with a napkin, the words 'Holmes Chapel Bakery' written in slanted cursive on it, before leading Louis back to the main room. It's gotten busy, this last half hour or so with the two in the back, and Harry sends a thankful look to a just arrived Nick as the elder slides his apron on, not missing the eye roll Louis throws their way.

"£4.10 is what you owe me, Lou," Harry says softly, typing in the man's order before opening the cash tray with a  _clink_ , and a little stutter because the cash register is as old as the store it resides in, and he hands Louis his change before he speaks up. "Hey, do you want to come over tonight? I have some takeout leftovers in the fridge and Friends on Netflix now, so," Harry shrugs to seem nonchalant when really, he's internally begging Louis to come, and to stay the night again even if he takes another piece of Harry from himself because he needs this; needs to not be alone with himself or his thoughts right now.

Louis seems to contemplate it, for a mere moment, before he shrugs; sipping at his cooling tea — always leaving the lid of the tea off even when Harry scolds him because it'll ruin his tea, it'll ruin what Harry tries to perfect each time of making it — and sighs gently. "Not sure, Hazza. Zayn wants to spend some time together since he just got back from his time with his family n'all. I might stop by later tonight, yeah? Don't hold me to it, though," he winks before waving off in departure.

 

———

 

Louis doesn't come to Harry's that night, or the next few nights after, and the birthday and combined Christmas gifts Harry has for him under his pathetic, decaying pine tree seem like a gentle (more like intense) reminder that two years ago, Louis would've begged Harry to let him open them days before his birthday and not days after. Harry's staring at them, looking at the smiling snowmen with disdain, because things are not how they should be. Harry should not be left feeling hollow and alone, while Louis is off with his friends and enjoying himself only to come over for the occasional fuck while Harry tries to convince himself that they're making love.

It's a joke, is what it is, and the leftover takeaway on his counter is left open and uneaten as Harry cleans up before shuffling into bed, staring at the wall and wondering where time goes because two years ago, he would not be sleeping alone.


	2. How Far Away is Home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, another chapter! I know not many are reading this but I need to update this anyway because it's only for one individual in particular (not including myself). Warnings for: smut, implied/referenced self injury (past), and angst. 
> 
> As always, thank you and if you like it, please leave comments and kudos.

 

_———_

 

Louis knows what this feeling is; it’s a sinking feeling of being let down and then eroding into something much more dangerous: self-loathing. He knows how a body decomposes from the inside out because that is what is happening as he stares into the window of the bakery shop and just — takes it in.

Harry is  _smiling_ , he’s laughing and emitting sun rays from his open mouth as he tilts his head back, lets out the most musical and magical noise while filling the bakery room with pure light and it has always been the most beautiful Louis has ever heard; his most favourite sound. Even though he is on the outside, looking in, he can remember Harry’s laugh from long ago when  _he_ used to make Harry laugh like that; when Harry trusted him enough to show him how different emotions portray on his angelic features. When there was a trust between them that went deeper than between the sheets.

Louis’ inked fingers tighten around the bouquet of roses in his hand, the petals crimson like the new wounds the thorns birth upon his skin, and Louis’ fingers keep tightening like that of a tourniquet — he needs to get his fix, the pain a blind distraction from the scene that is effortlessly carrying on in front of him.

He doesn’t pay attention to the blood sliding down his hand nor the blood rushing behind his ears, no, what he pays attention to is something he wishes he could never of seen in the first place. But he deserves it, he knows he does, and Harry knows it too, even if he wishes he didn’t.

Nick and Harry are mirroring each other with how close they stand together, Nick’s hand rising to rest upon Harry’s inked bicep, squeezing it gently while the other brushes a tendril of curl behind Harry’s ear. Louis knows Harry, he knows that the slight little stutter in his rising gaze — from the floor to Nick’s face — is because his breath has hitched; Louis knows that Harry’s cheeks aren’t always this pink and his hands aren’t always this shaky; Louis knows that Harry is inwardly panicking, like he always did before Louis kissed him, and scrambling for purchase. Harry is in  _love_ , as Louis watches in, watches the way Nick’s hand now trails from Harry’s ear to his jaw, cupping it tenderly before he presses their lips together.

Harry’s cheeks are shadowed by fat crescent moon shaped shadows when his eyelids flutter shut, his hand reaching between Nick and himself to grip the hem of the other’s shirt, and Harry’s eyebrows furrow because Nick is kissing him, Nick is pulling him closer in an empty bakery surrounded by a walking audience and no matter how hard Harry tries to reciprocate, Nick is not Louis.

What Louis doesn’t see, when he walks off in an angry turmoil, is Harry pulling away; wiping the wetness on his plump lips with the hem of his jumper and shaking his head; long curls bouncing in their wake of being disturbed, and he frowns gently, softly, to try and not make any harsh emotions erupt between Nick and himself. His mouth tastes bitter and he’s aching to wash it out with the soap in the loo behind them.

"I’m sorry, Nick, I—I can’t. I really can’t," Harry whispers, shame and embarrassment (maybe mild disappointment as well) filling him to the brim until he’s ready to burst, eyes stinging with the pain of unshed tears. When they roll down Harry’s pink cheeks, he isn’t sure who he is crying for — himself, Nick, or the silhouette of a familiar, curvy frame brushing past the audience outside the bakery shoppe.

Harry excuses himself, recoils from Nick’s hands and it feels like he’s been branded, that his skin is permanently scarred with the imprint of Nick’s touch and Harry wants to get it off. He wants it off  _right now_. He rushes into the loo, slamming the door shut and turning the knob to lock it, firmly, and after triple-checking that he has indeed locked it, he leans back against it.

He feels wrong, he feels like the toys little children play with that have the hollow cut out of a triangle, square, and circle, but instead of the shaped pieces being in the space they belong, they’re all jammed into the incorrect holes – triangle with circle, square with triangle, circle with square, and Harry’s just. He’s uncomfortable, is the thing, and he isn’t thinking when he reaches towards the sink and jerks the faucet on, harsh and quick waves of water spewing out and ricocheting against the ivory perimeter. He’s  _definitely_ not thinking when he reaches for the bar of soap, a subtle rose gold and Harry laughs inwardly because that’s his favourite colour and this is most certainly not his favourite flavour, as he wets the bar of soap and pushes it between his lips that feel too much like Nick’s.

It’s bitter and foamy, filling up his mouth like plaster as his shaking, ringed fingers grip the edges of the sink and he stares down at the drain. He can see his reflection in the guard, put there after too many customers complained about losing their rings whilst washing their hands, and he looks as wild as he feels. It’s distorted, out of shape, and it becomes a ripple when Harry’s tears fall down and  _splash_  against the surface.

Harry wants Louis, he always does, but he wants Louis to make things right again because Harry isn’t sure that he can, and when he gags on the bar of soap he’s making himself choke on, a sob rips out of him and a bubble pops out of his mouth. Harry just wants to see colours again, he just wants to feel clean again, he wants to be as pure and colourful as this bubble hanging out of him that shines rainbow in the fluorescent light of the restroom.

Everything has been torn apart in Harry’s life since Louis left, since he abruptly moved out and changed the dynamic between them, started seeing other people after telling Harry " _And I’d marry you_ " when they drunkenly kissed at the bottom of the steps in their new flat, when Harry said he wanted to be with Louis forever because he finally found a place that felt like home after living so long without it. Harry wonders if Louis still wears the metaphorical ring like Harry does ever since that night.

Harry’s homeless again, he’s leading himself on a leash that just keeps snapping and no matter how many times Harry seams it back together again, the tear worsens and takes up too much of Harry’s time to truly fix it.

He didn’t know what he had until it was gone, he didn’t really, truly know who to love until he was lost, and Harry wishes they were all made of glass because then they’d feel as fragile as Harry does.

Spitting the bar of soap out, Harry turns the faucet on and he flinches at the hot water as it burns his skin, brands him like Nick’s touch did, and tilts his head under the running water again with mild hesitation. He lets the hot water fill his cavity, he lets it create more bubbles inside of him, and he hopes he’ll be colourful again as he steps outside after work, only to see a bouquet of roses in the trash.

 

_———_

 

It’s cold in Harry’s flat, his paycheck going towards his rent rather than his electricity and heating bill, and Harry keeps his thick knit jacket on as he stumbles inside. His shoes are slid off and forgotten by the coat rack near the door in favour of a pair of thick socks, his painted toes curling in them as he makes a kettle of tea on the stove-top.

Harry hasn’t stopped thinking about the roses he found in the garbage on his way home, he hasn’t stopped thinking about the way the thorns were tinted red like they, too, were prickled by a touch they didn’t yearn for. He stared at them for a while, wondering if the silhouette he saw in the window of the shoppe had abandoned those as well or if they simply were thrown away in the haste of a lover’s quarrel.

Harry chooses the second option to keep himself a little bit saner than before.

The three quick taps on his aged flat door is what grabs his attention, Harry setting the bubbling kettle aside and turning the knob to the left, shutting the overhead stovetop off. Last time he didn’t, only to answer the door to retrieve takeaway, the vintage stove caught aflame and there’s a lick of black, marred wallpaper behind his current stove to prove it. Harry’s thankful it didn’t burn the whole damn place down.

Padding over to the door, his thick knit kitten socks padding against the wooden floor, Harry unlocks the door and opens it, a smile ready on his face to greet whomever is on the other side. He hopes it is Nancy, his next door neighbour, who often fancies herself company on days that she misses her husband and thinks Harry is the next best thing. Harry tries to remind himself that this doesn’t mean he is second best; it simply means that Nancy would prefer his presence over that of sadness and isolation. When she isn’t visiting him at the bakery for tea or cookies, she visits him here.

His smile drops, though, when he sees a familiar sight from earlier that day — curvy figured silhouette in Adidas with a choppy, swooped fringe; the ocean in Louis’ eyes a stormy one as he gazes at Harry. It makes Harry’s stomach turn with a slight tinge of fear, the taste of soap still in his mouth. He wishes he could’ve washed the rest of himself at work, too, because Nick’s fingerprints still lie on his skin.

"Hey," Louis greets, letting himself in as he brushes past a shivering Harry (from the cold, he tells himself), and wipes his Vans on the welcome mat before closing the door; Harry’s hand still on it, his pink fingernails a stark contrast against the aged white of the door. "Thought I’d accept your invitation and come over," he explains, hanging his denim jacket up.

Harry watches like a hawk, suddenly feeling too hot for his thick jumper and jacket, his toes still cold from the iced wooden floor underneath them. He hangs his jacket up as well, untucking his jumper and clearing his throat before heading back to the kettle. He’s lucky he made himself extra for a second helping because Louis is here now; he’s okay with only having one cuppa tonight.

"That was two weeks ago, Lou," Harry murmurs, pouring the steaming water over two tea bags of Earl Grey, a splash of dairy and no sugar in Louis’ mug but too much sugar and not enough dairy in Harry’s, as Louis always reprimands him. He hands the warming mug to Louis as he leans back against the counter, trying to ignore the way their fingers brush together and create a gentle form of static. They both tell themselves that it is from the friction of wool-knit clothing and not enough warmth in the winter atmosphere.

There’s another drag of silence between them, Harry’s gaze staying low because they both know that if Harry meets Louis’ eyes, what happened today will be confirmed and Louis won’t feel like he was hallucinating, really. Sometimes Louis truly wonders if he does see what he sees, if he is truly viewing it as it is or if it’s distorted, biasedly so, and he sighs. He came over here for a reason, not to question himself.

"H," Louis murmurs gently, setting his mug down against the counter of the island he’s leaning against, standing across from Harry now, and he comes forward in three easy steps; setting Harry’s drink down as well and they’re as close as he and Nick were earlier in the day. It makes Harry feel bubbly again. "Do I need to remind you?"

Harry’s brows furrow, his head cocking to the side a bit, because what must he be reminded of? What is there to remind him, anyway? Louis has been MIA for two weeks now and the uneaten infamous takeaway still sits in Harry’s trash, the young man never eating enough to fill the trash enough for it to be taken out anyway, and Harry wonders if Louis is referring to the much overdue combined birthday and Christmas gifts under his now dead tree, pine needles everywhere. Harry keeps them there because sometimes, he likes to walk over them barefoot, likes to feel the sharp pricks of them against the arch of his feet.

"Remind me of what, exactly?" Harry questions, gaze rising to Louis’ and — fuck. That was a mistake; it really truly was, if Louis’ even stormier eyes are anything to go by. Louis’ face is so expressional, a little graded rubric for Harry and he knows that certain reactions are letter grades in response to what Harry says. Right now, he’s at an F, perhaps even lower than that.

Louis’ hand comes up, and it gently rests on his shoulder, making chills erupt along Harry’s milky skin. He settles it there for the moment, his fingers wrapping around the bone there and Harry swears Louis’ fingers are going to leave a permanent moulding there. "Of whom you belong to," Louis whispers and it’s so quiet, so gentle, that Harry almost requests that Louis repeats himself but he isn’t given the chance.

Louis surges forward and presses their lips together, hard and bruising, and Harry’s lower back is erupting in a needle-like pain from the way the chipped counter top digs into it; making more indents into his skin. The kiss isn’t slow or gentle; it is open mouthed and furious with passion, with unclaimed love, and their lips mould together perfectly — as much as two broken puzzle pieces can fit together, anyway. Louis’ stubble is brushing against Harry’s skin as their tongues slide and brush together, saliva being traded between them, and Harry tastes bitterness once again except it’s the kind he’s come to know, to love. It tastes like cigarette smoke and stale crisps, the only way Louis will eat them, and it tastes like shattered glass, making Harry’s mouth bleed the same way his heart is.

"Louis," Harry gasps out when Louis trails kisses down Harry’s slim column of a throat, the hand once on Harry’s shoulder now pressed against the opposite side of his neck; thumbs pressed under Harry’s jaw in able to tip he chin upward. Louis doesn’t reply, instead he bites down on Harry’s throat, canines and all, as he licks over the skin before sucking on it. It’s cruel and it hurts but feels so fucking good at the same time, making Harry whimper as one of his hands card through and grip Louis’ feathery hair.

Light, cool air is blown over the bruising blossoming on Harry’s skin, a trail of them now, and Harry’s a whimpering mess under Louis. He wants more, he doesn’t care if this isn’t right of them to indulge each other like this, and he just wants Louis so badly right now it makes his bones ache with infinite tenderness.

"Can I — fuck — can I be yours for tonight?" Harry belts out, his voice a mess and breathless, as breathless as Louis is as he pants against Harry’s jaw and nips it gently, knowing how much Harry likes to have little reminders of their time together, even if some days it simply haunts him so much that he covers it up with the foundation in his make-up drawer. Harry just wants to be Louis’, wants to be owned and claimed so badly, that he doesn’t care if it lasts only for tonight; for their time together. He wants to feel something other than the heaviness in his chest.

Louis, on the other hand, knows what this will do to Harry. He knows it’ll leave him bruised and soon in withdrawal after Louis leaves, it’ll have Harry in detox while he’s at work only to get a minuscule fix again when Louis stumbles in for his infamous blueberry muffin and bland tea. But he can’t help himself, he can’t, when Harry goes around kissing other men like that because no matter how much they both fight it or try to forget it, Harry is Louis’ and Louis is Harry’s and there is no way around it.

"Yeah. Yeah, fuck, you can be mine," Louis says before he takes Harry’s trembling hand from his hair and intertwines their fingers in order to lead Harry to the bed; the mussed up bed that Harry has yet to make because all he does is sleep in it, wake up, go to work, and fall right back down in it to repeat the cycle. He doesn’t fix things unless he absolutely, necessarily has to.

Louis pushes Harry onto the bed, straddling him as he looks down at him, takes in the dark eyes mostly made of pupil, takes in the flushed cheeks and pink, swollen lips, takes in the way Harry’s face is just built up of trust that he has for Louis. He tries not to let that sting, tries not to think about it too much. At least while he’s here.

Harry’s quick to let go of Louis’ hand and hold the waistband of Louis’ jeans instead, hurriedly unbuckling the belt and then jerking the button and zipper open, the zipper still snagged and ultimately broken from the last time they had sex. Harry calls it making love, Louis calls it fucking, and one of them is wrong.

He’s ready to take Louis’ cock out of his boxers, the material of his jeans already pushed down south to Louis’ knees planted in the duvet, when hands wrap around his wrists and demand his attention. He looks up at Louis, eyebrows furrowed, because he wants this so badly. He wants the taste of Louis in his mouth, wants his precum to bubble up like the soap earlier did, and make him taste something worth having.

"Why are you stopping me?" Harry inquires, a bit of a huff in his voice.

That’s a question Louis is currently asking himself, wondering why the _fuck_ he isn’t letting this angel below him wrap his lips around his cock and make him feel like Heaven is a place on Earth. In truth, he doesn’t know, he isn’t sure but he needs to be sure — for the both of them, if not for himself, because Harry trusts Louis. He trusts Louis to take care of him when he is desperate and needy like this. "Want to fuck your mouth," Louis admits, wanting to have some ounce of control back because right now, he feels out of it, and he can’t have that.

Harry pauses before he nods, and he shuffles up the bed until his head is just barely resting on the pillows, making sure not to strain nor crane his neck or else he’ll wake up with a kink in it and that’s not fun, as much as Harry enjoys pain. He inhales deeply, looking up at Louis, before he parts his lips and lets Louis guide his cock into Harry’s mouth.

 _Fuck_ is the first thought that comes to mind as Louis slides his length between wet lips and into a warmth that’s all over, developing and swallowing him in it, and he fists Harry’s curls with his other hand as he continues to slowly guide his cock into Harry’s welcoming mouth. He’s missed this, missed the way Harry just becomes so pliant under him and ready to take whatever he is given. "You’re good, you’re so fucking good, Haz," Louis whimpers before he bottoms out.

He knows he should let Harry’s jaw slacken up enough, let his throat get used to the intrusion because Louis is in no shape or form small. He is not something you can easily take down and continue as if nothing ever occurred. He’s thick, and he’s too much yet not enough all at once, but Louis disregards that in favour of placing the hand once on his cock next to Harry’s head to lean forward while the other stays tight in Harry’s curls; his fingers still polka-dotted with the wounds the thorns gifted him earlier outside the bakery shoppe. He thrusts a few times slowly before it’s too much to bear and he _really_ starts thrusting into the wet warmth.

Little gagging sounds are leaving Harry as his throat constricts around Louis, as he fills Harry’s throat so well that it makes oxygen feel inferior to the way Harry breathes him in, tastes him, and swallows him. His hands come up to bunch in Louis’ jeans and they’re swatted away, Louis wrapping his hands around Harry’s wrists and pinning them above his head. Harry moans in response, his eyes fluttering closed and casting fat crescent moons along his cheeks once more. He lives for this; he does, pleasing Louis like this until little grunts turn into breathless moans and Louis pulls out of his mouth, his free hand working over his cock until white, long strips stain Harry’s chin, lips, cheeks, and some on his eyebrow. Louis keeps touching himself until the very last drop reluctantly slithers out and onto Harry’s awaiting tongue.

It’s heavenly, at last, his post-orgasm bliss as Louis swipes his thumb through the cum on Harry’s skin, feeding it to him. Harry’s tongue greedily licks the pads of Louis’ fingers, his lips wrapping around the ones not even covered in cum, and he sucks on them all the while his hands stay pinned above his head. He doesn’t need them to help him see where he’s going, blindly, as long as he has Louis leading him like this; fixing the seam in his leash with little to no effort. Harry wonders how he is so imperfectly perfect like this.

Louis lets go of Harry’s wrists but he knows better than to move so he keeps them there against the bed, looking up at Louis as he looks down at him while he tucks himself away and fixes his clothing, the sound of a belt buckle being strapped down the only sound filling the air besides their laboured breathing. It takes some courage, but Harry speaks up.

"Are you going to stay?" he whispers gently, his voice a mess; deeper than before and raspy, prickly like icing on a cake that’s covered in sprinkles only this is much more sweet than the anxiety filling Harry, wondering if this is enough to make Louis stay this time.

It isn’t, Harry realises, as Louis’ hand cups the prominent bulge in Harry’s tight black jeans, making his hips buck up and friction brush against a hard on he wasn’t even aware he had. This is how Harry will cum, whimpering into the sheets with the hand not rubbing him through his pants now wrapped around his throat; cutting off his air as Louis presses him into the sheets.

There are still whimpers strangling out of Harry, withered and fragile, raspy as he rolls his hips along with the movement of the hand cupped and moving against his cock, a wet stain of precum on his jeans and it’s as dark as the tears staining Harry’s pillowcase; a reminder that will grow cold by the time this is all over. Harry cums with a cry, his back arching and his thighs clamping shut as they tremble under Louis, the hand on his throat pulling away when Louis is sure Harry has finished orgasming.

Louis is gone by the time Harry opens his eyes, glassy and glazed over, and he panics. He panics because he’s not sure if things are supposed to be this way between them forever; he panics because he needs Louis to stay. It’s when Louis returns with a damp flannel, an ice cold water bottle, and a packet of fruit snacks that Harry visibly calms down; sinking back into the memory foam of his bed. Louis’ imprint is still visible in the foam.

"Hey angel," Louis mutters, "Can you sit up for me and take your pants off? I need to wipe you down before you sleep, yeah? I know you’re tired but you’ll regret it and wake up grumpy if you’re this dirty still."

No matter how much Harry wants to refuse and try and eschew this routine of theirs, he raises his hips and with the aid of Louis, his pants, jumper, and under t-shirt are thrown into his hamper basket; his kitten socks and panties kept on — the delicate, lacey articles of clothing something Harry takes pride in because they are one of the few comforts he is lucky enough to know.

Louis lets Harry sip on the ice cold water as he wipes him down, wipes the cum off of his face and torso from where it stains him, and then he feeds Harry the fruit snacks, eating the grape and cherry flavours because they’re Harry’s least favourite.

"Call of work tomorrow, yeah?" Louis instructs as his fingers card through Harry’s damp curls; damp from sweat and damp from the few tears that escaped Harry’s dilated eyes, the curls a bit matted from the way Louis fisted them earlier and he’ll apologise later when they’re both in their right minds. Maybe. When Harry starts to protest, Louis shakes his head and kisses him gently to shut him up. "For me, please? You haven’t a day off in a while, Harry, you need one. I won’t be too happy if I find out you went to work anyway."

And that’ll do it. Harry will call off and fake an illness, maybe message Nick and request he take the extra hours because he knows Nick needs it what with him just moving here not too long ago. He’ll do it because it will make Louis happy and it’ll give Harry time to rest, to reflect on what happened tonight and obsessive over it and ruminate.

"Okay," Harry whispers, finishing the fruit snacks and the glass of water per Louis’ request, watching the older boy pull away from Harry, standing before he clicks both his ceiling fan and night light on, knowing Harry can’t sleep without them. "Louis?” Harry calls out gently as the other begins to close the door, opening it up again with his hand on the knob.

"Yeah, H?" Louis says.

"Thank you," Harry replies, his voice gentle, and he isn’t sure just exactly _what_ he is thanking Louis for. Thanks for the heart break, thanks for acting like I don’t exist until the hunger in you is too much and you need someone to sedate it? He isn’t sure and Louis isn’t either as he smiles at Harry, nods, and cracks the door before walking away.

On his way out, shoes and jacket back on, Louis tries to tell himself that the roses in a crystal vase on Harry’s counter are not the ones he threw in the trash by the bakery earlier.


	3. Same Mistakes

_———_

 

Harry isn’t too sure about this, honestly. He isn’t too sure if showing up at Louis’ place via three in the morning is a smart idea but Harry’s — for lack of a better and more elaborate word — a mess and he  _needs_  to talk this out, he  _needs_ to see Louis; just like a rose needs water and Harry’s never been so thirsty in his life. Ever since their intimate re-encounter, one Harry has been obsessively reimagining in his head; day dreaming at work and burning their buns for the day, things have been so rubbish. Like stated, he keeps messing up at work: burning the buns, spilling the coffee, forgetting to lock the shoppe’s doors which cost them not as much as it could have but enough to be complained about. Everything he does, Louis is a little fragment of, like a piece of wood splintering Harry’s thumb; it makes him ache, dully. Harry’ll see Louis’ eyes in the blue waves of the beach he visits, Harry’ll see the ink of Louis’ tattoos when his curls stick to and line his skin, he’ll hear Louis in his head; laughing when Harry adds too much creamer to a customer’s coffee.  _"You like things too sweet, Harry, give someone else’s teeth a rest, will ya?"_

It’s hell and Harry needs to stop being doused in gasoline, by his own doing, finally. He needs to get a good night’s rest that isn’t filled with either writing about his emotions or stifling them down like dirty laundry in an overflowing hamper. He can do this, needs to, he tells himself.

Inhaling deeply, Harry curls his long fingers into a fist before hesitating and abruptly knocking on Louis’ door, the sudden surge of courage making his knocks seem like that of a SWAT teams. He grimaces, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket before his ears perk up, picking up the little shuffles and grinds of Louis’ bed creaking with his weight before he heads to his front door. When he opens, he’s still half-asleep and Harry wants to scold him for doing something so unsafe – opening the front door this late before checking to see who it is but it ends up working in Harry’s favour anyway, because he gets to hear Louis’ sleepy; gruff voice one last time.

“It’s three in the bloody morning, what do you –" Louis begins but cuts off after he rubs the sleep in his eyes and takes in the sight before him, takes in Harry’s even sleepier looking appearance yet he’s still wearing his work clothes from the day, seeming productive. A mask; a façade, it looks like. “Harry," he breathes before clearing his throat and crossing his arms in the crack of the doorway. “What’re you doing here so late? You’ve got work in a few hours, don’t you?”

Harry’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at the mention of the time – that of which he’s forgotten about; the inevitable fact of work – and yet, here he is, at Louis Tomlinson’s doorstep about to pull at the stitching of his heart for another time. It never heals quite right and Harry’s heart is tired.

“Um,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck; nervous. “May I come in? I need – we need to talk, Lou.”

Harry's expecting a no, a 'go back to bed, Harry', but instead, Louis pauses before making enough space for Harry as well. Nodding in thanks with a small smile attached, Harry brushes by; trying to ignore the way his skin seems to soak in more gasoline when their hands brush. Louis offers to take his coat but Harry shakes his head.

"I won't be here too long, I hope. Just need to clear some things up s'all," he explains before nodding towards the couch that which Louis leads them to, Harry trying to ignore the yawn Louis fails to stifle as he sinks into the cushions; elbow against the arm of the couch and his cheek leaning against his palm. Harry sits in the chair across from him, feels like they aren't comfortable enough yet to sit so close to each other. The thought — no, the mere fact of it — makes Harry's heart ache more and he hopes this little chat will help be a handful of ibuprofen for his aching.

"Well?" Louis propositions while he watches Harry nervously wring his fingers together, watching Harry struggle to bring up what he wishes to talk about and that has always been a fault of Harry's; an error, if you would. He's always been too nervous, too careful with everyone else but not himself, and to caring about what everyone thinks of him; of what everyone else wants and Louis is exhausted just thinking about how strenuous that must be, he cannot imagine how Harry must feel. Like Harry, that makes him ache like a sore wound, and he wonders if Harry's stitching is coming undone, too. "You can talk to me about it, Haz," he tries, "I won't get angry or summat, yeah? M'too tired to, anyways."

Louis offers a smile, trying to ease the younger boy, and it works — for the most part. Harry leans back in the chair a bit and sinks into the cushions as well, looking out Louis' curtain window and trying to remember what he wished to speak about, he had a whole plan and in chronological order, but that's shit now so he just —

"I love you," he blurts, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw as the words leave his mouth and they feel like glass; they feel like the nails of crucifixion themselves and Harry's never felt so unholy in his life, these past few years considered. This, though, is nothing in comparison and it has his heart beating so harshly; so quickly that he fears it may finally stop from exhaustion.

Harry opens his eyes and he looks back out the window, watches the little raindrops drip from Louis' windowpane, watches the window blur from it until Harry realises it is his own eyes dripping; he's become like the windowpane, too. Louis knows, he knows Harry's like the windowpane except to Louis, Harry is not just that — he's all of it: the glass of the windows, the curtains, the lamps and carpet, the front door. His home.

"I love you," Harry tries again, his voice wavering and he clears it; takes a deep inhale once more. "I love you and I wish so badly that you loved me back. I know — I know the last few years have been difficult, that  _I've_ been difficult, and that things have fallen apart but I want them to be put back together again, Louis. I want you so fucking bad that it hurts and I'm so fucking tired of hurting," he spits, anger in his blood and it boils; boils like black asphalt under sunshine, like the asphalt of Louis' favourite fairgrounds from when they were older. Simpler times, when walking barefoot and burning was a good memory. 

"There have been holes in me that were so small when we first drifted apart but now they're gaping. They're gaping and Louis, you just — you keep tearing them fucking apart and I  _let_ you. I let you hurt me, I let you fuck me and leave me, and I let you let me think this is love but it isn't. I know you don't love me like you used to, I know things have gotten difficult but you fucking left. You left and didn't even try, why didn't you try?" Harry inquires and now, he realises he's shouting, realises he has probably awoken all the children and families on the levels of Louis' apartment complex. He can't find himself to care at the moment, not when he turns his head and sees Louis looking at him like a deer in the headlights, his eyes like rain, too. "Will you say something? Anything? Anything besides 'I want my usual order' or 'I want to fuck you'?"

Louis is ragged — his breath is ragged, his lungs are ragged, his  _heart_ is ragged and it's Harry's fault but ultimately his own. Harry's speaking the truth and Louis is so quick to deny it in his own head, so quick to make up excuses and defend himself while this is what got them in this position. Their whole relationship, whole lives, have been choppy because of Louis' disappearance and Harry's longing and enough is enough. 

Louis takes a deep breath before speaking, he takes a few moments to blink away the tears that he refuses to admit to, and he sits up; clearing his throat while rubbing his sweaty palms against the thighs of his sweatpants. "You're right," he says, voice significantly softer than Louis' — like comparing a porch bell's toll to a city clock tower bell's toll. It's just so different; staggering. 

"I don't love you like I did before," Louis whispers, his gaze falling to the floor while his fingers grip the fabric of his sweatpants, making Harry's own skin burn from the friction of it. Those eight words hurt Harry more than he thought they would, they pierce through him like a dagger and how silent it is, is like salt in his wound. It's different, telling himself this every day — that Louis doesn't love him like he once did — and hearing Louis admit it makes Harry feel like a rag doll. He's pliant in his chair, watching Louis' fingers twitch and grapple for something to hold onto. Louis has more to say, and Harry's going to let him tear him apart one last time.

"I don't love you like I did before," Louis repeats, his voice surer, more firm and in control as he lifts his gaze and watches Harry's own hazel eyes falter. They're wet, swimming like a creek and Louis wants to take a dip; wants to wash all of their bad memories off of them even if it's at the cost of Harry's tears staining their skin. "I love you more, Harry. I love you more than I did before because I've kept myself so far away from you, so distant, and — they always say, like, that time heals all wounds and distance makes the heart fonder but I think that's a bunch of bullshit. Time has only made things  _harder_ , has made me grow colder and made you softer. Harry, you're a completely different person now and I want —" Louis cuts off, lets himself a few deep breaths, because this is courage. This is what love is, he reminds himself, communication and honesty.

"I want to get to know you again. I know parts of you, parts that are old, like how you love roses and red wine; how you love to sleep on the cold side of the pillow and how you still work at that damn bakery that doesn't pay you enough. I've known how you shampoo first then condition and let that sit in while you wash and shave before rinsing and exfoliating to keep your pores clean. It used to piss me off, how much long you took in the shower and ran the water bill up but I miss it. I miss joining you in the shower after complaining about the water bill and fucking you until the water ran ice cold. I miss you, Harry."

Louis is panting after that, his words a jumbled mess and rushed together but he finally has all this out of him, he's finally confessed his feelings and now, may both of their souls be resting and free, he hopes. Hopes Harry will react much calmer and that he'll accept Louis again, that he'll take him back and Louis isn't sure if Harry's tears are a positive or negative sign but he crosses the distance between them and kneels at Harry's feet anyway, taking his hand in his. 

Harry's crying because he's so overwhelmed, this is a total three-sixty, he isn't too sure on how to respond or what would be the proper way to respond. His hand, encased in Louis' and their gazes meeting, and his heart tell him to say yes, to be vulnerable for Louis again but his head is so loud; so demanding, that Louis will only hurt him again because how many times have they had this conversation? Far too many but, this one is different; it makes Harry ache in a  _hopeful_ way. It's what encourages him to tighten his fingers around Louis' and to take a deep breath, rapidly blinking his tears away. His tears that were once painful, like daggers, but now, they're — Harry's happy, he thinks, something he hasn't felt in such a long while. His heart is loud like a whistling tea kettle and he wants to get burned again, no protection this time.

"I miss you, too," Harry whispers before Louis sags a bit, a smile cracking the elder's face because Harry misses him, too — even if he was a rotten cock to him this whole time. "I miss how you always,  _always_ complain about sugar in tea whenever you have it and let everyone know what a disgrace it is. I miss how your hair would not cooperate on the most vital and crucial days so you were forced to wear a beanie and gripe about it under your breath. I miss how your morning breath was when you kissed me good morning in the shower before work, I miss how you'd waste the water bill with me and end up paying all of it just to turn around and take another long shower before bed. Miss all of it."

It's — Louis is reacting much more soundly than expected, this night went different than expected for them both, and it's so sudden but time has never been kind to them so, Louis doesn't think about it when he surges forward and presses their lips together; wraps a hand around the back of Harry's skull and cradles it. 

He won’t let Harry get away this time, he won’t force him to leave after they make love instead of fucking, and he won’t let his doubts and insecurities fuck them over one more time. He’s tired of letting good things turn rotten, things that he loves.

Harry will go to bed in Louis’ arms with his heart beating soundly and Louis’ doing the same just under his ear, as they lie skin to skin until Harry’s shift in the morning that Louis will beg him to call off; that Louis _will_ have Harry to call off so they can raise up Louis’ water bill one more — but not the last — time.


End file.
